Ghost a la Mode [Granny Apples 01]

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  After a long pause, Emma said in a small voice, “I’m scared, Albert.”

  “No need, Emma. I’m here now. You get some sleep.”

  MILO CALLED EARLY THE next morning while Emma was putting her bags in the trunk of her car. She told him about Ian Reynolds and what he’d said about being able to see spirits.

  “Maybe it runs in the family,” Milo offered as a way of explanation. “Can’t your mother at least hear them?”

  “But I don’t think this guy is really Ian Reynolds. Granny told me that she had tried to contact Ian Reynolds once, but he couldn’t hear or see spirits. This guy claims he can, and from what I’ve witnessed, he’s telling the truth, at least about that. And the strange thing is when he’s around, the spirits disappear.”

  “That is odd. It usually means they don’t trust or like the per��� son.

  “Give me your e-mail address. I have some photos of him on my phone. They’re not the best, but maybe this guy is someone you’ve seen as a client or something.”

  “Okay, but it may take awhile. I don’t have the fastest system, and I’m not that computer savvy, especially with stuff like this.”

  After sending the photos to Milo, Emma headed into her last breakfast at the Julian Hotel. She’d almost skipped it, not wanting to bump into Ian, but so far she’d seen no sign of him.

  The hotel had been almost completely booked the night before, and the small, square tables in the dining room were nearly full. In the corner nearest the kitchen was a table set for four with only two people seated at it. Emma’s heart sank when she recognized the older couple from the Rong Branch the night before. They spied Emma about the same time. The man frowned. The woman looked embarrassed. Emma chose a small table near the opposite door occupied by two older women-one large and round, the other thin and angled. Both had short gray hair.

  “May I sit here?” she asked.

  “Of course, dear,” said the plump woman.

  Someone came in from the kitchen and set a bowl of homemade granola in front of Emma. It was the same cereal they’d served her yesterday. It was delicious. She’d even bought a bag to take home to her mother. She began to pour milk over it when she noticed that the two women, who’d been chatting with great animation prior to her arrival, were silent.

  “Please,” said Emma, “just pretend I’m not here.”

  The two women exchanged glances. Finally, the smaller one spoke. “We didn’t want to upset your breakfast.”

  The other woman added, “We mean, in case you hadn’t heard the news yet.”

  “News?” Emma stuck her spoon into her cereal. “What news?”

  A few people, including the older couple, finished and filed out of the dining room. It was then that Emma noticed the low, urgent hum of conversation among most of the diners. Even the servers seemed high strung. Emma looked at her dining companions for an explanation.

  “What news?” she asked again.

  Emma stuck some cereal into her mouth and began crunching down on it. She was only half listening, mentally making a list of her plans for the morning. Among them were a trip to the drug store for some ointment for her palm and a visit to the Pioneer Museum to see if they knew anything about the Winslow family, especially Billy’s death and the transfer of the property. Ian or no Ian, she intended to finish her mission. By early afternoon, she planned to be on the road back to Pasadena.

  Again the women at her table exchanged glances. “Might as well tell her,” said the large one. “She’ll hear soon enough.”

  Her friend looked around, including over her shoulder, before leaning toward Emma with wide eyes magnified even more by her thick glasses. “Someone was found dead last night. Right here in Julian.”

  “Murdered,” the other said, dragging out the word dramatically. “Just like in one of those Agatha Christie novels.”

  AN ELECTRICAL CHARGE TRAVELED throughout Emma’s body at the word murder. She ordered herself to calm down. Probably a domestic quarrel gone bad. Phil Bowers had warned her that crimes did happen in Julian. But Emma was sure murder wasn’t a common occurrence like it was in other parts of California. Then she began to worry that the two men had gone back to fighting after she’d left.

  Her two breakfast companions were all a-twitter about it. She turned her attention back to them, hoping to learn more before she jumped to any conclusions about Phil and Ian.

  “We’ve been coming here every year for over ten years,” the plump one said. “We teach school in Riverside, and every year as soon as school’s out we leave our husbands and get away to Julian for a long weekend.”

  “Something like this has never happened before, has it, Hilary?” commented the slender one.

  “Absolutely not,” replied Hilary. She leaned toward Emma again. “The manager at the hotel told us specifically not to visit the Pioneer Cemetery today.” She looked around as if the FBI had the placed bugged. “Apparently, that’s where it happened.”

  Emma dropped her spoon with a loud clunk. Quickly, she picked it up again and smiled in apology at the remaining guests who’d turned her way.

  “The cemetery? You mean the historical one up on the hill?” She gave a sigh of relief. If Phil and Ian had tried to kill each other, they wouldn’t have taken the time to go all the way to the cemetery.

  The women stopped talking as a server approached with a plate of fruit and homemade bread for Emma. Along with it was served a baked egg dish nestled in a ramekin.

  “That’s the one,” Hilary whispered, once they were alone again. “Alice and I just love going up there and poking around.” She turned to her companion. “Don’t we, Alice?”

  Now it was Alice’s turn to lean toward Emma. “I heard Barbara, the hotel manager, say that the victim wasn’t a local.” She paused to look at Hilary. “You know, Hil, I’ll bet it was drug related, being so close to Mexico and all.”

  “Julian’s also a big stopover for lots of rough bikers,” added Hilary. “Could have been one of them.”

  Emma could see this was exciting news to the two Miss Marple wannabes, but it rattled her like marbles in a jar. Drug related or not, she’d been in that same cemetery last night just as it had gotten dark. Bumping into Ian had been scary enough. She shivered at the thought that they might have ended up in the middle of a drug deal gone bad.

  After breakfast, Emma checked out of the hotel and walked down to the Old Julian Drug Store. Most of the shops were just opening up for the day. After picking out some antibiotic cream and a package of large bandages for her hand, she wandered the small drug and sundry store, looking at the various souvenirs and products. They had a nice assortment of books on the history of the area, and Emma bought a couple. At the cash register, she asked about the murder.

  “I heard this morning that there was a murder at the old cemetery last night. Any idea who it was?”

  The man running the register took her money and put her purchases in a bag. “No word on his name, but I did hear he wasn’t from around here. Most of us are thinking it was drug related. Can’t imagine what else it could be.”

  Drugs again. Well, she thought, drugs had nothing to do with her. Outside on a bench, Emma doctored her hand before heading to the Pioneer Museum.

  The museum was housed in a building a few blocks down Washington, just beyond the Rong Branch on the opposite side of the street. Next to it was a small park with mature trees and picnic benches. As she entered the museum, she was warmly greeted by a small woman sitting at a desk. She appeared to be in her sixties and wore her gray hair pulled up on her head. Her figure was trim and dressed in jeans and a Western shirt. After collecting a small entry fee, she told Emma if she had any questions, to just ask.

  The museum consisted of several rooms crammed with artifacts and photos from the pioneer and gold rush days of Julian. Emma wound her way through the various displays of mining equipment, clothing, and household goods, reading the descriptions and bits of hi
story along the way. She studied the photographs. There was a photo of Albert Robinson and several other folks in front of the Hotel Robinson back when it first opened. Albert looked much the same as he had last night in her room, just younger.

  A chill wafted through the cramped space. Emma looked around, relaxing her eyes and mind in order to better see images that weren’t quite there except to those who knew what they were looking for. A few seconds later, she spotted the hazy image of a ghost sitting on one of the upholstered display chairs. The ornate velvet chair was set off to the side. Across its seat was a velvet rope to ward off tired live bones. Tacked to the back of the chair was a printed note asking visitors to please not sit on the furniture.

  The ghost appeared to be an elderly woman with thick gray hair swept back into a bun. Her dress was long and dark with a tight bodice. A cameo fastened a high collar close to her neck. Across her shoulders was a lace shawl. She sat erect, as if receiving callers on a Sunday afternoon. Looking at Emma, the ghost gave her a small, warm smile. Emma smiled back and realized that the ghost and the curator looked very much alike. She wondered if the woman at the door realized she had company.

  Emma continued through the displays until her eye caught a photograph that made her breath catch. It was of a man and woman in the stiff formal pose so common in photographs of the time. They were dressed in their country best. The man, thin and rangy with a full beard, was seated. Behind him stood a diminutive pretty woman with a hand on his shoulder. Even though she was younger, Emma recognized Ish Reynolds immediately. The note below the photo confirmed it. It also noted that Ish was hung for killing her husband.

  “I was quite a looker, wasn’t l?”

  Emma jumped. She’d been so engrossed in the photo, she hadn’t noticed or felt Granny’s presence. Granny stood beside her, looking at the picture.

  “Yes, Granny, you were”

  Granny Apples pointed to the caption. “I didn’t kill my man, Emma. I didn’t.”

  “I believe you.”

  Emma looked around. They were in a separate room, away from the main door. Still, Emma wanted to make sure the curator wasn’t near before speaking again. “But that was a long time ago, Granny. Why is it so important now? Even Albert said he didn’t believe you did it. Probably others didn’t, too. So why not just let it be?”

  Before Granny could say anything, Emma had a new thought, one associated with Ian Reynolds. “You’re not thinking that by proving your innocence, the family will get the land back, are you?”

  Granny started to move away. Emma followed.

  “Granny,” she hissed. “That land was sold fair and square to the Winslows, even if you and Jacob were murdered. Winston sold it.”

  Granny’s image stopped by other photos. She pointed to one of a family. The caption said it was John Winslow, his wife Helen, and their children. Emma looked closely at it. The boy in the picture was only about ten or twelve, but Emma saw a resemblance between him and the ghost in the graveyard.

  “No, Emma, I don’t want the land back. Wouldn’t do me no good now, would it? I just don’t want folks thinking I’m a killer. Not now. Not ever.”

  “May I help you?”

  Emma jumped. It was the curator, peeping around the corner at her.

  “Sorry to have startled you, but I thought I heard you say something.”

  Emma slapped a sheepish grin on her face. “Sorry, but I was reading the captions aloud to myself. Bad habit.”

  As the woman started back to her desk, Emma stopped her.

  “Excuse me, but I do have a few questions.”

  She turned and walked over to Emma. “Of course, that’s why I’m here. Name’s Maude.”

  “Emma Whitecastle.” Emma held out her hand, and the two women shook politely.

  “Maude, I’m a descendant of Elizabeth and Jacob Reynoldsthe couple in that photograph.” She pointed to the picture of Ish and Jacob.

  “Really?” Maude looked surprised. “I was going to ask if you were related to that fool on TV.”

  “Actually, I am, but only by marriage.” She walked over to the photograph. “I’m related by blood to the Reynolds, on my mother’s side. We’ve traced our line back to Winston Reynolds and to Julian.”

  “Funny, someone else was asking about the Reynolds family recently. About two or three months ago.”

  “A tall man, nice looking but flashy, from Los Angeles?”

  Maude scrunched up her face in thought. “Can’t say. The inquiry came by telephone, but I do recall the number being from Los Angeles, and the gentleman said his name was Reynolds. I might still have the number somewhere.” She started back to her desk. Emma and Granny followed.

  After scrounging through her cluttered desk, Maude produced a scrap of paper with a Los Angeles phone number and the name Ian Reynolds printed neatly under it. “He gave me his number in case I remembered anything more to tell him.”

  “And did you? Remember anything more, I mean.”

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I did.” Maude sat down at her desk. “I wasn’t sure it would help, but then I remembered that the records show the Reynolds property was sold to John Winslow, one of the town’s prominent citizens. The Winslow family history is very tragic. John’s wife, Helen, left Julian and took their daughter with her. Soon after his mother left, young Billy Winslow committed suicide. Story is, John’s heart broke so bad he took to drinking, and he gambled away everything he had. One night he was so drunk, he wandered into the woods during a snow storm and died of exposure.”

  The story made Emma remember what Granny had said about the early days being unkind to the weak.

  “What did that have to do with the Reynolds family?”

  “Maybe nothing, but then a librarian called me and told me that they had come into possession of some letters written between John and Helen Winslow after she left Julian. Apparently, a patron left the library a lot of books when she died, and the letters were stashed inside some of them. They were probably handed down through the daughter’s line.”

  Maude excavated another piece of paper from the depths of her desk. “Here it is. Her name’s Jill Patterson. She’s with the La Habra Library. Said she knew about our museum and wanted to know if we’d like copies of the letters since they contained history about the town and its people. Of course, I said yes. Then I called Mr. Reynolds and told him about the letters, to see if he might be interested since they involved the family that bought the property. I offered to send him copies as soon as I received them, but he said he’d get them directly from the library since it would be faster. I gave him Ms. Patterson’s number.”

  Emma’s brain absorbed the information like a cracker dipped in milk. It could be nothing. But then again, the letters between Helen and Big John Winslow, written after Mrs. Winslow left Julian, might contain clues as to why she left and to what happened over a hundred years ago when Julian wasn’t a sleepy, sweet tourist attraction but a rough-and-tumble town emerging from the heat of a gold rush.

  Letters from the grave.

  It had already occurred to Emma that John Winslow might have been one of the three men who attacked Ish Reynolds and strung her up from the old oak tree on her homestead. Billy might have found out and was killed for it. Or his father might have had remorse, and Billy was killed to shut him up. Both were plausible, but based on what little information she’d gleaned from Billy’s stiff responses, Emma’s money was on the former-that Billy somehow found out and paid the price for his knowledge. And that his father had been unable to stop it, causing him to sink into the depths of a bottle.

  “Do you have the letters?” she asked Maude.

  “Yes, I do. They came in several weeks ago.” Again she rummaged around her desk, coming up this time with a large manila envelope. “I’m afraid we haven’t had time to review them yet.” She handed the envelope to Emma.

  The envelope had been opened, but it didn’t look like the contents had been disturbed. Inside were copies of several lett
ers written in a tight hand. Emma examined them, noting that the originals must have been written on small sheets of paper, as the words were edged on the copy paper with a slightly ragged frame. She noted, too, the dates-definitely after Granny was hung. The letters were addressed in two variations: Dear wife or My dear Helen. All were signed: Your devoted husband, John.

  As she scanned the correspondence, Emma became excited. Though stiff and formal, the letters begged for forgiveness and contained professions of love and confessions of dark deeds. She looked around for Granny and found her hovering nearby, next to a display case.

  Granny came to Emma. “Those there letters, they’re important?”

  After noting that Maude was busying herself at her desk, Emma gave Granny a smile and a nod. Granny wrung her hands and closed her eyes in hope.

  Emma approached the curator’s desk. “Maude, is it possible to get copies of these letters?”

  “Yes, but I’ll have to charge you for the copies.”

  “No problem. While you’re at it, can you make me two copies of each?”

  While Maude disappeared into a small room just behind her desk, Emma thought about Ian Reynolds. The land properly belonged to the Bowers family, but she wondered if he was intending to strong-arm them with this historical information into sell ing it to him. And now she could see why Phil Bowers had reacted so strongly to her being Grant Whitecastle’s wife. This was a good story; it was a historical murder-mystery come to life-the type of story that would capture the imaginations of viewers and put public sentiment on Reynolds’ side, possibly pushing the Bowers family into making a guilt sale.

  But something was amiss. She still didn’t think the Ian she’d met last night was the real Ian Reynolds. So why would an imposter be interested in this land? Was it really about building condos? She doubted it. Condominiums could be built anywhere, especially somewhere amenable to new construction and not so far out, off the beaten path. Was there really an Ian Reynolds somewhere?

  Emma cocked her head toward the back room. Maude was still making the copies. Casting her eyes about the messy desk, she spotted the note with Ian Reynolds’ telephone number and quickly jotted it down on a scrap of paper. She’d just replaced the original note when Maude returned with the copies.